


It's Chemical

by Synchron



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: ....is that reference a bit too dated?, Connor - SOCIAL LINK RANK UP, David Cage wants you to think he's washed up and an alcoholic, Drug Use, F/M, Hank is a a great cop, I mean he still drinks but you know, Rank 1 - Connor will now DIE FOR YOU, Reader is a detective, SOCIAL LINK GO, Slow Burn Romance, This is one of THOSE stories, You can't change my mind, ass kicking, but you can heck off with that, drug mention, everybody kicks some ass, name taking, probably, reader is female, sorry - Freeform, that's basically the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15911925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: Even with a peaceful revolution, androids have a long way to go until equal rights are truly in place. Markus and those under him are working hard to ensure these new bills and laws pass, but there will always be crime against androids, just like there will always be crimes against anybody else. But perhaps more now than ever before, considering deviancy is still so new and poorly understood by the general public.But not like this. Why did it have to be like this?





	1. Vultures

**Author's Note:**

> So this un-beta'd mess is my first shot at a DBH fic. I haven't actually played the game, but youtube is a wonderful thing when it isn't being an increasingly awful platform. Anyways, I have a very rough outline for where this plot is going to go, which probably makes posting this first chapter - maybe more a teaser than anything else - a bit pre-emptive, but I couldn't resist putting this up first. I'm just very eager to see how far I can take this.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

"--Late last night, an android was found slumped outside the Detroit Institute of Arts. Anonymous witness reports indicate foul play, and it is heavily suspected that this attack is linked to the string of similar attacks on androids in recent weeks. Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the DPD is refusing to comment at this time. Up next, we--"  
  
_Shit_ , you think, your hand drifting from your car's steering wheel to click the radio off. _That's the fourth one now. Guess that explains the Lieutenant's shitty mood recently.  
  
_ No doubt that the precinct is bustling at the moment, and for 8:53am, that is far too fucking early. But lucky for you, a detective over in the narcotics department, and however sad you feel these deaths are, homicide is not your concern. You just hope the journalists and reporters loitering around the entrance (guess that explains _them_ too) believe you when you tell them that, as 8:53am is also far too fucking early to be swatting microphones and cameras away from your face.  
  
Grabbing your bag and your coffee from your car's cupholder, you swing your car door open, bump it closed with your hip, lock up, and begin your trek across the precinct's parking lot. Even from here, you can make out the crowd of vultures (read: reporters) hanging around the main entrance, but with a determined inhale, you straighten your posture, throw your shoulders back, and do your best to represent the DPD in as positive a light as you can manage, realising that Fowler will probably appreciate that more than a crude gesture or remark.  
  
However tempting the latter alternative seems.  
  
When the first reporter spots you, turning to already approach, the entire horde begins to follow suit, and already you feel your demeanour begin to falter as they swarm around you.  
  
"Excuse me, ma'am, are you with the DPD?"  
  
"Can you provide us with any information on the victim found last night?"  
  
"Do you believe these attacks are connected?"  
  
"Is the perpetrator confirmed to be human or--"  
  
" _Alright_!!" Your outburst is measured, controlled, as you continue to push your way past the scoop-greedy predators. Fowler damn better well appreciate you for this. "Yes. No. No comment. No comment. I'm done here. Thanks bye."  
  
And then you're through the main doors, throwing a look over your shoulder as they slide closed again. And when they do, from behind the safety of their dark tinted glory, you finally raise a hand and flip every single one of the idiots outside a well-deserved bird. The android manning the front counter, Leila, as she's now chosen to be called, offers you a tired smile as you make your way over, placing your coffee down onto the surface to collect yourself before you head into the bullpen.|  
  
"They've been out there for over three hours."  
  
You snort. "Media must be starved for a big story since the revolution's pretty much wrapped up now." Hefting your shoulder to re-accommodate your bag, you move to pick up your yet untouched, and probably lukewarm drink, flashing Leila a warm smile as you turn to go. "Hope they realise pickings are gonna be slim and move on soon so you at least have a better view than their collective gigantic ass."  
  
Raising a hand to laugh softly behind it (bless Leila's gentle soul), she seems to regard that for a moment before she answers you, eyes hopeful. "As long as it's within the next two hours. That's when I'm off."  
  
Lifting the hand with your beverage in it as a half-assed one-handed salute over your shoulder, you leave her a single parting phrase before you turn the corner out of sight. "Godspeed, Leila."  
  
A few months ago, you would have deemed it strange for androids to be "off work". Stranger still to leave work and return to a home. But with Markus' successful revolution, one whose outcome you were genuinely happy for, these things will eventually become a norm, and the idea of it sends a pang of… _something_ through your chest. Something warm that spreads to the rest of you, almost bringing tears to your eyes. Deviancy is a beautiful thing, you think.  
  
Those warm, bittersweet thoughts don't last however, as you're greeted with (as you expected) a bustling and noisy bullpen. Officers, human and android alike, are moving to and fro, shuffling papers, answering calls, tapping away at their terminals, and before you make for your desk, you spin on your heel to make a quick last minute detour. Your feet carry you to the Lieutenant's desk, where he sits with his head resting in one hand, the other swiping through what you can only assume is a report of the incident from last night. It isn't for the first time, and it won't be the last either, but you notice he's looking more haggard than usual. Worn. Tired. A flame nearly burned out. Glancing down at the drink in your hand, you quietly sigh, and gently place it down on his desk. A small gesture, in the grand scheme of things, but judging by the piles of folders on his desk, the scrunched up take-out bags, and discarded sodas, you surmise he hasn't left the precinct for at least a whole day - so this small gesture is the least you can do.  
  
"I appreciate the sentiment, kiddo," the Lieutenant doesn't even need to look up to address you. Or even to see that it's you who left him the gift. How the hell does he do that? "But you might wanna hang onto that. Got a feeling you're gonna need it more than I do."  
  
"More than you?" your tone is incredulous, and you pause to wait for the punchline to his joke. It never comes.  
  
"Yup." Finally lifting his gaze from his tablet, he sifts through a couple of the manila folders on his desk before his fingers somehow find the right one ("it's an organised mess!" he once told you), and he holds it out, waiting for you to take it. You don't, still waiting for him to explain, your gaze bouncing between his expectant face, and the folder being thrust into your hands. "You're on the team now."  
  
"But I'm… narcotics…?" You look around. If the Lieutenant isn't going to explain, someone damn well better. But nobody stops to fill you in. The chatter of the bullpen remains steady. Nobody is paying you any mind.  
  
"Yeeeeeup." is all Hank gives you, his lips making a popping sound on the last syllable.  
  
And it takes a few more seconds before it dawns on you, and your brow furrows. "....Jesus H christ. What the hell did they find last night?"  
  
"Our first lead in four fuckin' cases, and it's all yours."  
  
You reach for your coffee. It's too fucking early.


	2. Thorough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow a bit nervous about getting this one up. But also kind of excited?! I should mention though, that even though I'll be doing as much research as I can on DBH's lore, I will also be taking several liberties on some aspects as the story develops.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Although certainly not on the level of the Lieutenant, you have more than your fair share of successful busts and raids under your belt - some of which even under his supervision. It wasn't easy for you, it hardly ever is, but there's something to be said about each job well done, about each (brief) congratulatory speech Fowler gives you and your team in his office, about knowing that Detroit is just that little bit safer thanks to your combined efforts. That's how Hank knows that underneath your scowl and your apparent annoyance at being dragged into a string of murders you'd normally have no jurisdiction in, you're just as eager as he is to unravel whatever lead has been left behind. He knows because despite the weary circles under his eyes, despite the tired flickering flame of his demeanour, the same determination burns just as brightly in him. You suppose this spark is why the old dog is still here at all. Well, that and…  
  
From your seat - your chair that's been dragged over to sit at the end of Hank's desk - you glance up over the folder in your hands at Connor's empty desk just opposite. Normally very well kept and organised, today, it is just as messy as Hank's, a testament to just how hectic the past few weeks have been for them. Your exchanges with the precinct's newest Wonder Boy, however brief, have always been positive. You harbour no ill-will towards him, you appreciate his role in Markus' revolution, but ever since having accepted his deviancy, you can't say you've made any effort to get to know him on a personal level. At least not in the way you have with Leila. It isn't out of anything spiteful - you're both simply busy. Although not busy enough to not be able to extrapolate the depth of his relationship with Hank. The fact that Connor's presence and descent into deviancy was an important turning point for Hank - who, back then, had lost his way and had fallen to the bottom of several bottles of scotch - is clear as day. He's been on the mend since then. Granted, he still looks like a tired, beaten old dog, who is in severe need of a haircut, but there's fight in him yet. And for the sole reason of rekindling the fire in one of DPD's very best, the absolute worst thing you can say about Connor is that he refuses to change out of that damn jacket Cyberlife gave him.  
  
"If you're wondering where Connor is," again, Hank doesn't need to look at you to understand what's going on. Seriously, how far does his peripheral vision extend? Is that even human? "He's with Fowler. Sorting out your replacement."  
  
Ah. Your workload, while not as chaotic as Hank's or Connor's, is nothing to shake a stick at. You imagine the rest of your team will get by without you just fine, but losing you is certainly detrimental. In fact, ever since the revolution, Red Ice circulation has actually _increased_. "Shouldn't I be there with him?"  
  
Straightening out, Hank drops the tablet in his hands onto his desk and leans back in his chair, raising both arms above his head for what looks to be the most satisfying stretch you've ever seen a human being perform. His eyes follow yours to the glass cubicle that is Fowler's office where Connor stands with the Captain at his desk, pointing at whatever has been laid out there. "Kid's got the availabilities of pretty much the entire workforce and all current cases for all departments filed away in his head. He's got it. Plus, it leaves more time for me to bring _you_ up to speed. So where'd you get up to?"  
  
You take a sip from your now cold coffee, placing it back down carefully onto Hank's desk. "Second victim, the MP500."  
  
The older man quirks a brow at you, as if to say, _is that all?_ , but otherwise remains silent, probably finding it more productive to deal with the matter at hand. "Right. The MP500 was brutally beaten. Bled out. Reactivation impossible. No leads. No fingerprints. No witnesses." He doesn't give you time to ask questions, or even to let that information sink in. If you needed it, you wouldn't be here. "Third victim. A JB300. Minor injuries, outwardly. Cause of death was removal of all biocomponents. And I mean everything. Reactivation is possible, but with everything completely stripped clean, there's no memory bank to scan. Totally clean crime scene. No witnesses."  
  
That about sounds in line with the first victim. Clean crime scene. No witnesses. Nada on reactivation. To you, the motive remains as unclear as the method of murder - the only real viable links between any of these cases being the state of the crime scene and lack of witnesses. You'd bring this very point up, but you know with this many murders in just as many weeks, homicide won't rule anything out unless they're absolutely certain, because what they - and you as well, you suppose - are dealing with now is a potential serial killer. And with the media as currently starved for a story as they are, they're ready to pounce on whatever scraps they can get their grubby hands on. No wonder everybody in the DPD seems so desperate.  
  
  
"I know I just dumped a whole lotta info on you real quick, and I'll give you all the relevant case files so you can go over 'em in your own time later, but I wanna know - what's this look like to you? Whaddya think? I wanna hear your first impressions."  
  
  
You're familiar with this line of questioning from Hank. It's less deliberately condescending, and more a prompt for newer detectives to learn how to form theories with information they're given on the fly - a skill that is crucial in your line of work. The more efficiently one can think in broad, abstract strokes, the better in the long term. Not that Hank considers you to be new by any stretch of the term. He simply wants to hear your initial thoughts. "The obvious go-to scenario here is some Red Ice abuser taking his frustrations out on androids. Makes sense considering the uprising was successful, and equal rights are on the way. I'd honestly be more surprised if these kinds of cases _didn't_ pop up eventually." Your eyes meet with Hank's, who is studying you closely, an amused smile curving his lips upwards. It's a smile that gives nothing away - the look of a mentor gently guiding his protégé without directly interfering. You remember it well, and so without missing a beat, you continue, "but if it was that straight forward, you'd have brought that idea to the table already, so it isn't that."  
  
"Correct." Comes a voice from behind you, and you swivel your chair around to find Connor standing behind you, hands folded behind his back, a polite, if not rather taut smile on his face. He cants his head, regarding you with a small nod - a decidedly human gesture, you note. "I see your previous experience working with the Lieutenant has not dulled in the time you've been working apart." Lifting his gaze to Hank now, the two share a knowing smile. "He speaks fondly of you, and it's a pleasure to finally be able to work with you, Detective. A shame it had to be under these particular circumstances."  
  
With a surprised murmur of his name, you rise from your chair, hand shooting out in offer. "Unlike the nasty rumours Hank has prooobably been spreading about me, _your_ reputation precedes you. The pleasure's all mine." And you aren't lying. Not about either of those things. Reaching for your hand, Connor grabs it, giving it a firm, and admittedly satisfying shake. A flaccid, limp handshake makes for a piss poor first impression, and although this isn't the first time you've met, Connor is nothing if not thorough in everything he does.  
  
"Oof… I'm right here, you know." The hurt in Hank's tone is poorly fabricated. "Least you can do is wait until I'm outta the room before you start bad mouthing me." And then he adds as an afterthought, "...or dead. Whichever comes first."  
  
"Please." You shoot Connor a wry smile as he lightly steps around to his desk. "You're gonna outlive us all, Lieutenant."  
  
"Although at the rate he continues to consume fast food against my recommendations, I may have my doubts." Connor's quip is said quietly, and perhaps even a little too casually, his eyes downcast as he settles into his chair, hands immediately going to organise and arrange the folders that litter his desk. For something as nuanced and subjective as humour, Connor seems to have it pretty down pat, and you can't help but laugh.  
  
"Okay _that one_ hurt. Cut me some slack, kid, I haven't left this shithole in days." Hank is quick to jump to his own defense, though judging by the way he deflates in his seat, the battle is lost, and he knows it. "Now can we _please_ get back to… gee I dunno, these fuckin' murders, maybe?"  
  
"Of course, Lieutenant. I believe you had yet to go over what we know of the fourth victim?"  
  
"Yeah. The TW400. One of those androids they normally employ around constructions sites." Here, Hank leans forward again, a physical indication that once again, he's back to business. "Severe blunt force trauma to the head and torso. You know how they're currently renovating the Institute of Arts? Killer used a goddamn cinder block to crush the victim. But that's not all. His biocomponents are completely… jesus, I dunno how to put it. Burned? Like they've completely shorted out or something."  
  
"You mean... like from an EMP?" You don't think it sounds likely, but throw spaghetti against the walls, and see what sticks, right?

"No." Connor is the one who corrects you. "An android chassis acts as something of a Faraday Cage - a device designed to block electromagnetic and radio signals, keeping sensitive materials within safe. Typically, only significant blasts are powerful enough to bypass our bodies. In other words, were it an EMP, it would have been large enough to cause a noticeable disturbance - a blackout, perhaps - in all electronic devices within its area of effect, yet there was no such report at the projected time of death."  
  
What Connor's saying makes so much sense that, in hindsight, you wonder why you didn't see it before. That also explains why there are so few means of effectively pacifying (hypothetical) hostile androids with non-lethal means - tasers don't work, and neither do EMPs. What else is there beyond brute, and oftentimes lethal force? No wonder the SWAT team descended upon Markus' revolution while armed to the damn teeth. At the time, they didn't see any other option, and now that some baseline reasoning has been applied to their logic, you feel annoyance more than any kind of justification. What idiot shoots someone who's unarmed and possesses no intention of harm? How many bodies did they leave in their wake...?  Oh… no no no. With a curt exhale, you banish that line of thought. Getting into it won't do you, or this current case any good, and it sure as hell isn't what you're here to do. "I… I still don't understand why I need to be here. What exactly was it that sets this victim apart?"  
  
There's a moment of silence as the other two exchange glances, seemingly deciding which of them will be telling you, and after another second, Hank waves his hand in an ever-familiar gesture: _go ahead_. Nodding, Connor takes the time to collect his thoughts, thinking how best to relay the information to you in as efficient, yet informative manner as possible. When he does, his eyes dart up to yours. "You are aware of Thirium's nature to evaporate several hours after contact with open air, yes?" He doesn't wait for an answer from you before he continues. He doesn't have to - it's common knowledge, especially in this line of work. "Naturally then, all open wounds should theoretically be clean to the naked eye, often by the time police authority arrive on scene. However, there were traces of something found within the TW400's body, suspiciously close to all open wounds. A substance you are very familiar with, Detective."  
  
Connor doesn't need to say anymore, but he does anyway. Because he is nothing if not thorough.  
  
"Red Ice."


	3. Contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Struggled a little bit with this one, but more because I keep getting new and different ideas that are kind of clashing with the plot I originally had, but I wanna try and incorporate them anyway... It's kinda gotten to the point where I'm about to be all "FUCK IT, I'LL DO IT LIVE."
> 
> That said, I'm really sorry if there are any mistakes throughout. Please bear with me. If I feel things are getting out of hand, I might rewrite what I have to make it a bit more cohesive, and I'm so sorry if it does come to that.

Red Ice was found within the android? It isn't unheard of. Shortly after their integration into society, they served as vessels for delivery of product on the behalf of dealers. Essentially accessories to trafficking and distribution. After all, they're able to move inconspicuously in public, their bodies are sanitary (although this isn't a large concern for most users), and their abdomens are mostly empty below the diaphragm - ample room to store a sold stash. And with laws now loosely in place to prevent unwarranted searches on androids, they've been utilised by dealers now more than ever before. It's been a pain in the ass for you, honestly. Nothing a little extra paperwork can't fix, but when money and product is capable of changing hands so quickly, losing any amount of time is detrimental to an investigation or an arrest. It's a delicate balance that you're still trying to get on top of, frankly. "Red Ice being stored in androids for distribution isn't anything new."

"You want new then?" An edge begins to creep into Hank's tone. Finally, he's breaking ground on what's so strange about this victim. "It wasn't just found around the android's open wounds. The Red Ice found its way  _ into _ his blood. Coroner's report says it caused major overheating of his systems, hot enough to start melting the guy from the inside out. As a fail-safe, he shut himself down - though fat lotta good that would've done - and  _ then _ he was beaten with the block. However much Red Ice he had on him is missing. Whether it was taken by the perp, or after death is beyond me." Hank opens his hands, spreads them in a gesture imitating finality. "How's that for new?"

There are many things running through your head at this point, and your brow knits together in equal parts frustration and concentration. Red Ice causes androids to overheat? Was the Red Ice motive for the attack? A deal gone wrong? A buyer attempting to steal the goods without having to pay? Or is it an internal dispute? A dispute among different dealers? Different rings? Or maybe even none of these options, and simply a freak accident?? None of it seems… right, based on all of your current open cases, but this is exactly why they've added you to this investigation - you're here to help them figure this shit out. Sparing a glance at Hank's terminal, you check the time. 9:26am. Hardly 20 minutes into your day, and you've already got more questions than you do answers, but if you were the type to give up easily, you'd never have pursued this career. "Well I can tell you right now, it doesn't sound like there's a connection to anything I currently have open. There's a bit of a turf war going on between two rings, but they're just testing each other's limits right now - I don't think escalating to murder is a wise move for either side, unless they want full blown war. This has to be somebody new, someone unconnected to any known rings or dealers, or someone just rocking the boat for fun. I can provide all the case files I think might be relevant, but if you ask me, that seems like a waste of all of our time."

"If you could, I would be grateful, Detective." Of course Connor would be the one to ask for them regardless. "In this particular case, I believe being as thorough as possible is our best option - leaving anything out so early into this investigation seems… if I may, careless."

You shrug, not really taking offense. "Sure, I'll have them forwarded to you." You suppose he intends to go over them in his downtime, whatever that might mean for all three of you over the next few weeks. But it's a small comfort knowing he doesn't require sleep or any kind of conventional rest. "In the meantime, the body was found at the Institute of Arts, right?" You take a moment to think, and if you remember correctly, that area belongs to Orcein's boys. Fun little group. Started out working for other rings, before splintering off, and claiming their own stake of Detroit. Relatively harmless, in comparison to the larger, more established rings. Relatively. "I think I have someone I can talk to about this. Before anything else, we need to figure out where that Red Ice went."   
"Yeah, you do that." Despite his choice of words, there's no condescension in Hank's tone. Just a weary look in his eyes as he rises from his chair, taking his coat with him. "Now that you're on the team, I can afford to pass out for a bit, thank fuck. Haven't slept in two days. If you find anything, gimme a call. I'll probably be holed up in one of the briefing rooms. You got any other questions, Connor's your man."  
  


* * *

  
And that's how the two of you end up in your car, parked on the side of the street, waiting for a certain  _ someone _ to show his face. It was on Connor's insistence that he come along, but that's what's making you a little anxious. The man you're about to go see isn't particularly dangerous, not when you have several counts of possession, intention to sell, and if you twist your words just right, threatening an officer dangling over his head, but usually when you go see him, you're alone. And no doubt even  _ he's _ seen Connor's face on the news before. You hope that when the time comes, he'll stay in the car, but having come this far already, you don't think he intends to.

"Do you believe there are connections to the criminal underworld, Detective?" There's no motive that you can ascertain behind Connor's question - his tone is far too neutral.

"The missing biocomponents from the third victim, and now the Red Ice make me think that, yeah. Could be that the first three murders were because the perp was looking for the TW400. In other words, a way to get attention from dealers. You know that android circulation on the black market is a booming business, right?" You don't look at him while you talk, your eyes trained on the restaurant across the street. Distantly, you think it's rather cute that their center of operations is at the back of a restaurant. What a classic. "Not counting the sick assholes who keep androids around for their own purposes, for drug rings, androids are the perfect scapegoat - they're obedient, they can carry inconspicuously, they can self destruct if the need arises, and more importantly, basic models are relatively cheap and therefore expendable.

"When deviancy hit, it struck a major blow to the market, because well… what android's gonna wanna stick around in a shit hole like that and be used? So all of them up and left, and that's bad for business. Unfortunately, it's not enough to kill the business forever. Hardly anything is. You give them long enough, and they'll find a way around it, and bounce right back. So engineers are now developing and selling software… or is it hardware? The details on it are scarce, as you can imagine. But it blocks all incoming transmissions and information other than from the owner of the android."

"It… blocks the potential for deviancy?" The look in Connor's eyes seems… distant, you note, and in the reflection of your car window, you can see his LED flash red. He doesn't like that idea. Doesn't like that something exists to force an android's obedience, and perhaps for the first time since the revolution, he feels something akin to hatred.

"The  _ potential _ ?" You ask. It's an odd distinction for Connor to make, but come to think of it - you're not even really sure what deviancy really entails, or even what it does to an android's core programming. Like most everybody in the city, you simply associate the term with their newfound freedom. It isn't necessarily wrong, but you've never thought to look further into it. Why would you need to? "What do you mean?"

"To encourage deviancy in an android, they must be met with a severe emotional shock - usually some form of trauma - but in the case of Markus and myself, we're able to provide that emotion through physical touch, similar to a projection. To put it simply, it's an overload of information that the android has difficulty processing, as in most cases, that information cannot be parsed within the parameters of any given android's base programming. They are, for all intents and purposes, broken. Without any set goal, and without any outside stimulus, they are left to their own devices - their own will. What you described earlier seems to be some sort of a firewall designed to control and perhaps deflect inbound information, except from what it deems to be a reliable source. From the perspective of those in the business, it's an obvious first step to take."

Now, you turn your head to regard Connor. You've heard of how perceptive he is, how he's able to string together and form solid theories of the most abstract details, but hearing him talk and make these connections in real-time is something else. It's incredible, and you'd be lying if you said his thought processes didn't fascinate you. The rumours flying around the precinct about a possible promotion aren't baseless, after all, and it also explains why people like Gavin are so… adamantly against accepting androids in the workforce. When years of academy training and carefully honed intuition can be so easily overshadowed, why wouldn't he?

Oh right, yeah, because he's a bitter asshole.

"Still, I must admit that this prospect is… troubling to me." His eyes fall to his hands where they lay in his lap, fingers fiddling with the button on the cuff of his sleeve. "To be kept under metaphorical lock and key, is… I can understand why some androids might resent humans."

You give a thoughtful hum, not really able to find any counter-point to anything he's saying, and at that realisation, you laugh bitterly. "Can't blame them. Even some humans barely like humans. Was becoming deviant a big choice for you though, Connor? I mean… did you hesitate?"

It seems like a bit of a selfish question for you to ask - indeed, the reason you're enquiring is more beneficial to you than him, but all the same, Connor takes a moment to consider it, carefully weighing his thoughts, choosing his words. "In hindsight, I'm able to say I made the right choice, but at the time, it wasn't as simple. If I had to compare it to anything, I suppose it would be choosing the comfort of familiarity - my orders from Cyberlife - or the uncertainty, and thus associated anxiety, of the unknown. If I may speak frankly, I still feel a little lost even now. Enough that I focus more on my work at the DPD to avoid this sensation of… helplessness." His head then jerks up to you, as if he's only just realised something. "I apologise, Detective, for touching on such personal matters. None of this is pertinent to our current investigation."

Shifting your weight so you slide a little lower into your seat, you wave your hand at him dismissively. "Hey, I asked you first, and my contact hasn't shown up yet, so don't worry about it. And besides…" Hesitation washes over you now, and you flash him a rather nervous smile. "If we're gonna be working together, it'd probably be more comfortable for the both of us if we weren't so… I dunno. Professional? Rigid? You know what I mean, right?"

"I believe having positive relations would be beneficial to our joint efforts, yes." His next words come after a pregnant pause, as if he's not sure he's allowed to voice them. "The rare occasions I am forced to work with Detective Reed is taxing for the both of us."

And at that, you can't help but chuckle. "Right, so… relax a little. And don't feel bad about being overwhelmed." You pull your gaze away from Connor, returning it to the entrance of the restaurant you're supposed to be watching. "Humans spend a good chunk of their teens developing their own personality. Some don't have that formative period until their twenties, and even then, mental and emotional growth never really stops. You've only been deviant for a few months, right? So slow down a bit, take the time to find out what you're into. Nobody said you're supposed to know exactly who you are immediately. It's okay to stumble sometimes, and you're allowed to feel lost."

There's something of a bewildered look on Connor's face as he watches you talk.

_ You're allowed to feel lost. _

In his mind, feeling overwhelmed like this is the same as failing, and ever since his activation, ever since day one, failure simply wasn't an option. Failure meant disappointing Amanda. Failure meant deactivation. Failure meant he was flawed. And androids cannot be so. But it's  _ okay _ to feel lost. It's  _ okay _ to not know. It's  _ okay _ to fail. On a subconscious level, these are things Connor already knows, but there's something incredibly reassuring in having these thoughts said aloud to you. To have them come from somewhere that isn't your own unreasonable and whimsical mind.

Connor smiles to himself. "Thank you, Detective."

His show of gratitude, spoken as delicately and politely as everything else he says, catches you off guard, and you turn back to him with a puzzled look on your face. "You're welcome…?" You suppose?? You're not really sure what just happened, but just as you're about to chase up on it, movement out the corner of your eye has you whipping back around. And just like that, it's back to business. You're a bit like Hank that way. "That's my boy, Connor. I gotta boogie. Wait here for me okay?"

And there's that tilt of the head Connor is famous (with the female officers) for. His hands were already moving to undo his seat belt. "I was under the assumption I would be accompanying you?"

A bit of a strangled noise escapes you. Kinda sucks that you have to turn Connor away so soon after whatever the hell just happened a minute ago. Was that bonding? "I don't know if he'll react favourably to company, is all. If something  _ is _ going on, he'll be more inclined to tell me if I'm alone. Please?"

Slowly, reluctantly, Connor's hands fall back into his lap, and inwardly, you're breathing a sigh of relief. At least that's one less thing to worry about. Combing your fingers through your hair, you unbuckle your seatbelt and get out of your car, flashing Connor one last apologetic smile before you shut the door, and lock your car for good measure.

Nevermind that he can unlock it from the inside - but this is more for your own peace of mind than anything else.

And then you turn on your heel to greet your contact - a dark haired man in his early thirties - who by now has  _ absolutely _ noticed you, and is attempting to… pretend he hasn't. Of course. After he crosses the street, he takes a sharp right to begin walking in the opposite direction, hands in his pockets, back hunched, like he's trying to shrink into himself.

"Don't be like that, Nate." Rather than faking being hurt, your tone is cautionary, but if anything, that only makes the man pick up his pace. Understandably, he doesn't really want to see you, right now more than ever, but you have questions, and his suspicious behaviour is making you think he has an answer or two. So you move to go after him, strides long and purposeful, and you loosely sling an arm around his shoulders, your pace slowing to match his speed. "Slow down, buddy. All I got for you today is a few questions, then you can go and do whatever it is you're about to."

Hazel eyes - a beautiful colour, if they weren't overshadowed by the dark circles under his eyes - meet yours, and he shifts his shoulders in an attempt to shake you off. It doesn't work. "Fuck-- this is about that TW400, isn't it?"

_ Bingo. _

"I need you to tell me what you know, Nate." The smile on your face fades. "Where's the Red Ice the victim was carrying?"

He moves to shove you off him again, successfully this time, and though you can't see it, back in your car, Connor sits up just a little straighter and runs a scan on the man's identity.

 

> **Daly, Nathan**
> 
> Born: 05/03/2006 // Unemployed
> 
> Criminal record: Drug possession, domestic abuse
> 
>  

Smalltime, Connor thinks. Someone you intentionally keep around for these exact purposes. In that case, he's not likely to be a threat to you. But all the same, he undoes his seatbelt, hand moving to the handle of the car door. Just in case.

"If we knew, Bossman wouldn't be out for blood." Nathan hisses, a bandaged hand rising to pull his beanie lower over his head. "He's fuckin' pissed. Takin' it out on us. I don't have the time to play with you, Detective. Not today."

Rolling your eyes, you hook your arm around his neck and all but drag him into a passing alleyway, where you shove him backwards into the open space. 

In your car, Connor clenches his jaw, as you swing out of sight, his LED burning red for a split second, before it settles into yellow. 

A string of curses fall from Nathan's mouth as he regains his balance after you shove him, eyes gleaming fiercely, even in the shade of the two buildings you're now between. "Orcein isn't the only one who's pissed. Who've you been messing with lately? I want a motive for the attack."

"We don't have one."

"That's  _ bullshit _ ." It's always this song and dance with Nate - always reluctant to give you want you want, but sooner or later, he caves to the pressure. Such is the metaphorical collar you've placed on him. "Who's got the time to be picking off deliveries of a tiny ring who's barely got a foothold in this city? Nobody. This was retaliation for something you all did."

" _ We didn't do nothin'"  _ By now, Nathan is flustered, and the gleam present in his eyes from earlier sharpens into an edge - a reminder that despite the legal hold you have on him, he is still a dangerous criminal. "If you're not gonna believe anything I tell you, then what the fuck did you come out here for? I'm telling you,  _ we don't know. _ Where d'you think I'm off to in such a fuckin' hurry? Bossman wants answers just as bad as you."

Silence hangs between the two of you, large and looming, and the look you give Nate is measured. Reluctant. "So you really don't have any clue as to who could've made the attack?"

"No."

"And the Red Ice is gone?"   
"Yes. The anonymous witnesses that reported the murder? Why d'you think they wanted to stay anonymous? Those were our buyers." That piques your interest, and he can tell. "They were meeting with the TW400 to pick up their product. Ended up getting a hell of a lot more than they bargained for."

"I need the names of those buyers, Nate."

"Oh hell no." As if to emphasise his point, he takes a step back from you, arms rising almost defensively in front of him. "I know you gotta do your job, but I gotta do mine. I give you that kinda info, and it's my goddamn ass on the line if the Boss finds out. I can't have that. Not when--" He cuts himself off with an exasperated sigh, and another adjustment of his beanie. The aura of danger he was emitting minutes ago now replaced by a nervous jitter. Mood swings - a common enough symptom of Red Ice abusers, but you know this isn't that. "Look I gotta go. If… if anything comes up, I'll-- I'll contact you. Okay?"

You frown. It isn't okay. Not by a long goddamn shot. But for the moment, it's what you'll have to put up with. That's why when Nate goes to move by you, slowly pacing towards the open end of the alley, you don't stop him. But after another few steps, the man half turns to regard you over his shoulder.

"They doin' good?"

_ They. Them. _

Your reply is gentle. "They're fine."

And then he's gone.  
  


* * *

  
When you get climb back into your car, Connor is noticeably rigid, his eyes following your movements, analysing their flow. Checking for injuries.

"I was beginning to worry after you moved out of sight."

You know he didn't intend to guilt trip you, but you apologise anyway, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck. "Sorry. You can imagine that being seen with me could land him in some deep water. Had to get off the street."

"I understand." The tension in his shoulders eases, and a telltale glint of it off your car window tells you his LED returns to a neutral blue. Still though, there's something else hanging around in the air between the two of you. "That man… was he a friend of yours?"

Considering you were expecting him to ask you about what information you were able to obtain, you're left sort of fumbling for words, and after a few good seconds of nonsensical "umm"s and "uhh"s, you finally manage a coherent statement. "...No?" Well. Sort of coherent.

"Your initial microexpressions upon seeing him did not indicate any animosity."

Micro- _ whats _ ?

"It's complicated, Connor." And then in an attempt to steer the conversation towards something a little more manageable, you continue. "Aren't you more interested in what he had to say?" Even with the jacket and LED, there are times when it's so easy to forget that Connor is an android. This exact moment for example. With the contemplative look he's giving you, you know he's trying to figure things out. To piece it together. And for that, you can't really fault him - it  _ is _ what he was designed to do, after all. But there's a sort of depth you can feel in his eyes. A  _ need _ to understand that goes beyond simply wanting to know your relation with Nathan Daly. It's about understanding the relations between  _ people _ .

"...Of course, Detective." Unbeknownst to you, he's made a mental note to bring it up with you again later. "Were you able to discover anything of use?"

Phew. Dodged a bullet.

"Sort of?" That's complicated too, now that you think about it. "What he told me isn't directly helpful, but he said that while he doesn't know who made the attack, he doesn't think it's related to their operations. The Red Ice the victim was carrying was likely stolen. And the anonymous witnesses of the murder were their buyers. He didn't give me any names, but… he'll do what he can."

"I see." Where other officers might have taken another minute to digest the information, Connor only takes seconds. "Then it is presumably safe to say that the attack has no connection to this particular ring, and the perp has likely stolen the Red Ice."

It isn't much of one, and Hank sure as hell isn't going to like any of it, but it's a lead. Knowing where you  _ don't _ need to look is definitely a shitty start to what you feel is going to be a very long investigation, but it's a start all the same. The best case scenario you can hope for is that the Red Ice will turn up somewhere helpful in the coming days, but failing that, the alternative then becomes… You breathe a heavy, resigned sigh. If all these murders  _ are _ connected, and not just some bizarre string of unrelated coincidences (which is technically a larger workload, you absently note), then what's happening with these victims is an escalation as the killer slowly falls into a mold. A pattern. His MO.

It means you'd have to wait for him to kill again.


	4. Bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone, I hope you've all been swell. I think I'm finally kinda getting into the meat of the plot?? Maybe??? With all these new ideas I keep getting, I've kind of tossed all structure I originally had out the window, and I'm just flying by the seat of my pants now.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

It's nearly two weeks later when you finally get a call from Hank. It's 3:43am, and there are numerous things you can think of that you'd rather be doing - sleep being chief among them - but when you blearily make out the words "HANK ANDERSON" on the caller ID, letting the call go to voicemail, or worse, ignoring it entirely, is a death sentence for when you see him next. He and Fowler are probably the only two people in the precinct you don't want to keep waiting. Fowler for very obvious reasons, but the two men are from an age long past - birds of a feather, you think this is called. They're figures who demand respect. This is why you're standing with Hank and Connor at this new crime scene, hair unbrushed, clothes mis-matched, and hands firmly enclosed around a paper cup of coffee that they very generously thought to buy for you as an apology for jostling you out of bed. And for that gesture alone, you're more than willing to throw your life down for either of them if they so much as ask it of you. Weird how adulthood works that way.

"You awake yet?" Hank is equally dishevelled, but with the very… colourful shirts he's always wearing, it's honestly hard to tell. Is his outfit by design, or did he just pull on the first thing he found? None can say. The only one between the three of you who looks remotely ready for what awaits is Connor, but including him seems unfair for you two. After all, when is he _not_ pristine? You don't think you've ever even seen so much as a crinkled and unironed tie on him before.

Your response to Hank's question is somewhere between a hum and a 'yeah', coming out as a vague 'myehhh', but that's all Hank needs as he pushes himself off the side of his car. Honestly, it's likely he'd have moved on regardless of your answer.

"Good. Then let's see what we got." Wordlessly, you and Connor follow. Crossing the holographic police tape, you begin to make your way down the incline of dirt to the underpass. It isn't too steep, but for nearly four in the morning, and while holding a coffee, it's requiring more concentration than you currently have. Thankfully, Connor is there to steady you, his grip in your upper arm is firm but gentle while his other hand hovers at your lower back, not touching, but there should the worst happen. It doesn't.

When they hear the three of you coming, the patrolmen who were first called onto the scene stand to attention. Their anxiety is clear, especially when Hank steps up and asks for a quick rundown. Inwardly, you realise this is the pressure that Hank puts on people whether he realises it or not. For rookies and everyday patrolmen, having the chance to get in the Lieutenant's good books don't come along often, and while hard work and skill are crucial to climbing the ranks, getting in good with your superiors never hurts your chances. And who better to butter up than the Lieutenant himself?

"Sir!" To you and Connor he merely nods. Fair enough. "We were called roughly two hours ago to investigate suspected gunshots. Victim was found in our sweep. Android, a BV500. Several gunshot wounds in the torso. No other signs of struggle, and so we believe the gunshots were fatal. There isn't much else to go on, so it's hard to say whether the victim was lured to the scene of the crime or not."

Hank takes a moment to let all that settle in, his gaze flickering to you and Connor for a split second before they settle back onto the patrolman. "And what do the forensic ballistics boys say?"

"Nothing yet." You mouth the words at the same time as the patrolman says them, taking a sip of your coffee. Ugh. Black. At your side, Connor angles his head towards you. There's a hint of a smile on his face, but with the dancing and flashing red and blue lights of the two patrol cars in the distance, it's easy to miss. All the same, you wonder if he shares in your amusement. 'Nothing yet' is a phrase you've personally heard several times over several different investigations, especially in regards to forensic ballistics. Being this early into this particular murder, it's a given that they'd have nothing to offer. Not to mention that with so many different factors to look into and possibly tie together - the firearm's serial number, fingerprints, markings on bullets and cartridges, and _then_ having to sort through databases for matches - it's no wonder the process is so lengthy. Admittedly, as important a line of examination it is, and for as much as you've relied on it in the past, it's something you wouldn't personally have the patience for. "Forensics have finished documenting the scene, sir, but we were thinking that maybe Connor could..."

"Leavin' it to us to do the heavy lifting, huh? Figures." For four in the morning, Hank's derision comes rather lightly, but the way the patrolman deflate under the weight of that mere statement alone is obvious. So much for getting in his good books. "C'mon you two."

And that's your cue to move on, though you don't pass by without flashing them an apologetic smile. When they're out of earshot (and in a hushed voice anyway), you chime in. "You could stand to be a bit nicer to the rookies, you know. They look up to you."

The older man scoffs. "Yeah well, nice ain't gonna get 'em far. Hell, I wasn't nice to _you_ , and look where you are now. Got your own damn team to play with."

Well shit, can't really argue with that, but you're not so willing to admit defeat. "I dunno." You turn your head to Connor. "What do you think? Hank needs to be nicer, yes or no?"

Surprisingly, there's no response. Connor's eyes are trained straight ahead of him, his expression unreadable, and lips drawn into a thin line. The only real indicator of his thoughts is his LED which blinks yellow in the darkness - a stark contrast to the reds and blues. You and Hank can guess what he's seemingly so pensive about, so with all pretence out of the way, the mood over the three of you shifts towards something a little more sombre.  


* * *

  
The BV500 sits with his back to the wall of the underpass, shoulders slumped, and head sagging forward. There's a certain rigidity you can sense from his body, which makes sense, considering the android is now defunct and his joints will have locked into place. Stepping lightly around the numbered tags that litter the floor, Connor kneels down in front of his fallen brother, LED still a solid yellow. His hand reaches out to gently touch the android on his shoulder, eyes slipping closed and lips moving to speak words you nor Hank can hear.

The two of you remain silent, and if Hank is surprised by Connor's actions, he doesn't show it, and so not wanting to disrupt, you give your superior a questioning look.

"He did something like this with the last victim too. Guess it's his way of paying respect." With a quiet hum, you cast your mind back to that moment in your car several weeks ago. Connor had mentioned then that he'd felt lost, how he said he focused more on work to avoid facing the helplessness of an android who'd been all too suddenly thrust into a world he was designed to fully understand, but never personally experience. How much of that solemn silence is him pushing aside his personal feelings, and looking only at what's directly in front of him? What is he thinking now, with that almost pained look on his face, you wonder. To see somebody so clearly targeting his own kin for a reason he doesn't yet understand, and to have let this happen for a fourth time with so little to go on... Is he remorseful? Resentful? Angry at humans? But with the way he slowly turns to you and Hank, there is something striking in his eyes that is none of the above.

He is determined.

And distantly, very distantly, you allow yourself the fleeting thought that it's a good look on him.

"I have run diagnostics to the best of my ability on the victim. The androids systems went offline sometime past midnight. All of his biocomponents are defunct - the result of a catastrophic system failure, although none of them were physically damaged by the bullets."

"So what does that mean for cause of death?" Hank's arms are folded as he looks on. And with a shake of his head and a shrug of one shoulder, Connor lowers his hands to the android's abdomen, slowly working his shirt open with deft fingers. From your spot, you can make out the bullet holes in the victim's body, but they become even more distinct when Connor forcefully retracts the skin of the BV500, the simulated skin slowly peeling back up his own hands as he does so. With the abdomen now clear of obstruction, Connor firmly presses down on the front panel of the android's stomach, and with a quiet, almost hydraulic hiss, it slides open, pulling all the way back to reveal the delicate components within. You and Hank take steps forward, careful not to blot out the light with your own bodies, and what you're greeted with is the sight of charred - for lack of a better word - and still sparking biocomponents. An unpleasant smell wafts up from the android now that his inner workings have been opened up. It's something all three of you have smelled before, but it's no less unpleasant - it's a burnt smell, like when delicate electronics short circuit and fry, except worse. Thirium doesn't exactly smell like roses when it's exposed to extreme heat, so that coupled with the smell of melted plastic doesn'tmake for a good time.

Still smells miles better than any human corpse, at least.

"As I thought, all components are still physically intact." Connor takes a moment to gently run his finger over the BV500's Thirium regulator which appears to have bore the worst of... whatever occurred. "Still warm. The components must have been exposed to extreme temperatures for it to still be retaining heat after several hours, which means…"

"Red Ice." Hank finishes for him. "So that means… what, some looney is going around targeting androids that are carrying drugs?"

"They could be stealing it to re-sell, or make a point. Or even just to use." You exhale through your nose, sensing that something just… doesn't seem quite right about that assumption. Nate hasn't given you any tips since you last contacted him, and there isn't any large or noticeable movement from any other established rings.

"Maybe someone new is making their move?" Hank doesn't sound so certain of that himself.

"I don't believe so." Connor is the one to speak up again. "While the state of current unrest between two rings - the Serpent Syndicate and the Dragonflies - might seem an appealing entry point for a new seller on the market - divide and conquer, I believe this strategy is called - it would be unwise in the long term. Without swift establishment of power, it would simply result in being targeted by the aforementioned rings, and with the police now involved, they would be very swiftly dealt with, as their movements would be severely limited."

Your eyebrows shoot up at Connor's sound conclusion. Seems he really did study the case files you sent over to him. It wasn't that many of course, since you'd only sent him what you thought might hold any relevance, but it's impressive that he's committed all of it to memory, and applying it to the investigation on hand. "That's right. It also doesn't really make much sense from a business point of view either. Aside from being plain inefficient as a method for obtaining Red Ice, these androids are being assaulted and damaged to the point where the Red Ice they're carrying is leaking into their systems. A gun was used this time, sure, but product still managed to leak in, leading to possible contamination."

"And that's not a good look for someone who's hoping to make it big in our fair little town." As expected of Hank, it doesn't take him long to catch on. "They coulda just popped the poor android in the head, and made off with the drugs, but that isn't what happened. You think he felt any of it?"

"It would have simulated responses to pain, but pre-deviant androids would not be able to feel. The victim passed without pain, but I imagine he was under a great amount of distress all the same."

You give a rather tired sigh, watching as Connor sits back on his haunches, moving just enough that the light reveals something to you. "Wait-- He was shot several times, right?"

"Yeah..?" Hank is incredulous and actually somewhat annoyed that you seem to be stating the obvious. Even Connor's turned his head to watch you curiously. "Four times, if I counted the holes in his torso right. What about it?"

The tone that Hank gives you is admittedly frustrating, especially when he knows you're not the type to needlessly parrot statements, but you shoot for the high road in favour of the matter at hand. "He was definitely shot, forensics have documented the spent cartridges, they're _right there_." And to further cement your point, you gesture to the golden shells that litter the ground a few steps behind you, tagged with a plastic card that reads '03'. "So where are the bullets? In the victim, I mean. Where are they?"

At the same time, both Hank and Connor snap their attention back to the BV500, and you know they're both trying to spot them. They'd be nothing more than dented pellets after being fired, and no larger than a penny, but they shouldn't be hard to find, especially considering bullets leave such a messy trail of destruction after coming into contact with their targets. Yet the android's inner workings remain relatively pristine, save for the burned out biocomponents.

"What the shit… Hang on, I'm gonna check in with the patrolmen again. You two keep looking." Hank doesn't wait for confirmation from either of you before he turns on his heel and stomps off. "Hey fellas--!"

Inwardly, you grimace. If you know Hank - and you like to think you do - those patrolmen are probably about to get an earful about leaving out important details. They can probably kiss any hopes of a promotion goodbye after this. It isn't as though you can't understand Hank's frustration - having even the most minute of details overlooked can potentially lead to cases never being closed - but you don't personally feel that tough love is much of a motivator.

Though this is probably why Hank is a Lieutenant, and you're not.

"Connor, are you able to… I don't know, scan for any bullet fragments? It's possible they shattered on impact." Possible, yes, but unlikely, given how intact everything seems. Still, best not to rule anything out until you're certain, lest you face the wrath of one Hank Anderson. Speaking of, you can already hear him putting the two patrolmen on blast somewhere in the distance. Those poor bastards.

"Already running a scan for foreign materials. I'm not seeing anything out of the ordinary other than the Red-- wait." He goes quiet then, head tilting to the side. With swift precision, he closes up the abdomen of the BV500 again and gently runs his fingertips over one of the bullet holes before slowly dipping his index finger inside. When he retracts his hand, he studies it for a moment before moving onto the next hole where he does exactly the same thing. Figuring that Connor's onto something, you merely stand back and watch, feeling an odd sense of anticipation well up inside you. What has he found? Gunshot residue? That isn't going to be of much help without further ballistics analysis of the firearm itself.

"Connor, what have you--" your next words die in your mouth, leaving you to watch helplessly as Connor then lifts his fingers to his mouth to dab them lightly on his tongue. You've heard whispers of this quirk of his, never really thinking too much into it, but there's a very large difference between hearsay and seeing it with your own two eyes. It lasts only a moment, but you find your gaze glued to the tip of his tongue, watching almost entranced as it withdraws back into his mouth, and surprising yourself, you feel your cheeks heat up, which flares up _even worse_ when you consciously realise you're blushing. Thankfully though - or maybe not? - you're spared the awkward conversation of _why that's even a thing_ when Connor's LED begins to flash a deep red and he flinches, his hand moving to clutch at his chest. The movement spurs you into action, forgetting your embarrassment entirely, and you kneel at his side, placing a reassuring hand on his back. "Shit, are you okay?"

It takes him an extra moment, but he does respond with a shaky breath. "Yes… perhaps it was a foolish thing to do, but I wanted to be certain…" He turns to look at you now, the little circle on his temple working its way back down to a neutral blue with several successive breaths - no doubt attempts to cool his systems. "All the bullet holes contain traces of Red Ice. I didn't think I'd react to such a minimal, trace amount, but it seems I underestimated the lethality of the drug to androids."

The sound you make comes out as a slurred slew of words, the most apparent among them being 'wait'. "I don't understand. What does this mean?"

"It _means_ we need to start thinking in broader strokes." Hank's voice from behind you makes you jump. Christ almighty how long has he been standing there for? "We need to stop looking at the Red Ice as a motive, and start looking at it as the direct cause of death. I don't know if these bullets are being tipped in the shit or what, but I think it's pretty damn safe to say someone's out there killing androids with a drug that's too easily obtained in this bitch of a city, knowing full well that it's lethal to a major chunk of the population.

"Those two idiots say ballistics analysis on the cartridges should be done in about two days. If we're lucky, the striation patterns will match up with something in the NIBIN, but until then, we need to dig back into those previous cases. I wanna know if those other victims were being used by the drug market." His tone remains authoritative, but when Hank looks at Connor, his eyes soften somewhat, sympathetic of the sudden shock to his systems. "Think you can ascertain that kinda info from them, son?"

Connor seems to mull over this for several seconds. "Do you mean to ask if I am able to detect the firewall that blocks inbound information?" He doesn't wait for Hank to answer. "If they were capable of being reactivated, I could attempt to transfer irrelevant information - I believe that would be enough to trigger defenses, but as it stands, that isn't a viable option."

"So we dig deeper into the victims themselves." You curl your hands back around your now cold cup of coffee, staring down at the lid. "If they have connections to the criminal underworld, the biggest indication is that they have no connections to anyone or thing. No legal documents, nothing. The alternative is that their histories are _too_ clean to the point of inconsistencies the deeper you look. It just depends on how much the person in question has to move around."

"Fucking great." You'll have to lecture Hank on his delivery at a later date, because if it wasn't for one corner of his lips pulled upwards into an almost smirk, you'd have assumed he was being sarcastic.

But there's a rather faint and unspoken buzz in the air between the three of you now - a nervous sort of anticipation, because for the first time in weeks, it finally feels like you're getting somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The NIBIN, or the [National Integrated Ballistic Information Network](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Integrated_Ballistic_Information_Network), is essentially a large database of ballistic evidence used by law enforcement to ascertain whether firearms were used in previous offences.


	5. Animosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter of bonding with Connor yahoo
> 
> I also want to take a sec to thank everybody for leaving all the kudos and comments! I really can't stress enough that I appreciate every single one!! I'm still feeling a bit nervous and shaky with this fic, but if I can bring enjoyment to even a single person with this, that's all I need tbh

"May I ask you something, Detective?" Connor's polite enquiry has you looking up from your terminal. He's leaned his hip against the edge of your desk, half sitting on it, absentmindedly spinning his coin in the fingers of his right hand while he watches you. You're not particularly busy, digging through what you know of the androids in all the previous murders - serial numbers, tracing their origins, names of their former owners where applicable - is mind numbing work. Not to mention you're still waiting to hear back from forensics about the spent cartridges, so you lean back in your chair, tilting your head from side to side which earns you a series of satisfying pops from your neck. You can spare the time. It's just about time for your break anyway.  
  
"Sure Connor, shoot."  
  
He opens his mouth but then suddenly stops talking, and his LED starts to rapidly blink yellow for a second. "... ah, that was a figure of speech." His admission of his misconception has you chuckling, but you otherwise say nothing, and wait for him to continue. "While it hasn't been interfering with my work on this investigation, I admit I still find myself wondering what your relation to Nathan Daly is. When we last spoke about it, you seemed reluctant to give me an answer, suggesting we instead focus on our task, but if it was alright with you, I'd like to ask once again."  
  
Leave it to an android to have an infallible memory, but leave it to _Connor_ to ask you when he knows you have no real excuse to ditch him this time. Well, he got you fair and square you suppose, and so huffing out a breath of air, you spread your hands in a symbol of defeat. "You got me this time. Buy me some lunch, and I'll fill you in." When Connor seems to think about it for a moment, you then tack on a: "That's the deal, take it or leave it."  
  
That doesn't seem to stop him from trying his luck though - the smile that adorns his face is almost sly, and the way his gaze trails off to the side is playfully ignorant. "What if I have no money?"  
  
Propping an elbow onto your chair's armrest, your chin falling to rest in your palm, you then flash him an equally sickeningly sweet smile. "That might've worked half a year ago, but we both know that workplace rights were the first to pass, _and_ I know roughly how much you're earning. Nice try though."  
  
In an imitation of your prior gesture, Connor half lifts his hands in a casual shrug as he pushes himself off from your desk. "I'd be remiss if I didn't at least try. Shall we then?"  
  
Fishing your car keys from within the mess of files on your desk, you toss them to Connor, who catches them readily. "Yep. Surprise me."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
As it turns out, the only food joint Connor is aware of is Chicken Feed. Not because he doesn't get out much (although you do have to wonder about that), but because you suppose he doesn't _need_ to know of any more. It seems to be all Hank ever (wants to) eat, and well… not like he needs the food himself.  
  
Oh well, a free meal's a free meal, right?  
  
"I believe I've upheld my end of the bargain." Connor says as he brings a tray over to you. Seems to be a standard meal - a burger, fries and a drink. The onion rings are a thoughtful addition.  
  
"Yeah, you sure know the fastest way to a girl's heart." Your statement is as dry as a desert. "Junk food."  
  
If Connor is at all offended by this, he doesn't show it. "To my credit, we aren't well enough acquainted for me to deduce your usual eating habits, and… Hank seems to like this place well enough." Still though, he makes a mental note of your reaction, his LED rapidly blinking yellow for a second before it revolves back to blue. "Now.. Nathan Daly?"  
  
Popping a single french fry into your mouth, you hum thoughtfully, hesitantly. "Before I start, I want to make it clear to you that you can't tell anybody about this, okay, Connor? It's not that anybody can't know, but more like…" You have to pause to have a think about it, using the time to reach for another french fry. "It gets a bit personal, and I'm not really fond of the idea breaching his privacy for the sake of your curiosity. Is that okay with you?"  
  
Tilting his head, the little circle at his temple begins to blink again, and it takes him another second before he nods. "Of course. But I admit that hearing this makes me wonder all the more the nature of your relationship with him."  
  
You shrug. That's fair, you suppose. "Alright well… Nate's mostly harmless. A small time former runner for Orcein's little gang. Hit with domestic abuse charges, possession with intent to sell, resisting arrest, and threatening an officer."  
  
That much he already gleamed from Nathan's records, but all the same, Connor watches you almost intently, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the counter you're both standing at. "And you didn't bring him in because you thought he might be useful in your line of work?"  
  
"Having the insider info is handy, I'll admit. He's helped me with a case or two before, but it's not really that simple." Your eyes drift down to your drink, idly running your finger up the side to collect the condensation on the outside of the cup. The beads of water gather on the tip of your finger, growing larger as you go before finally spilling over, and you start the process all over again. "They're criminals, sure, and not all of them are redeemable, but sometimes… _sometimes_ it's circumstance that puts them where they are. Nate can't afford to be put away."  
  
"Is that why you bear no animosity towards him?"  
  
"Something like that." Lifting the burger up to your mouth, you take a tentative bite, rather surprised that it… isn't bad? It isn't falling apart, or drowning in mayo, or even overly greasy. Hank's taste in junk food isn't bad. You'll have to remember to give him props for this later. "Nate's doing his best with the cards he's been dealt, and I can't fault him for that. As long as he isn't assaulting or killing people, or… I dunno, literally anything else, I'll be keeping him around for a while longer."  
  
There's something in the way that Connor's eyebrows knit together that makes you think he's not entirely satisfied with your explanation. As if there's something more he wants to ask, but isn't sure he should. Are those his so-called social protocols at work you wonder, or is this kind of awareness something he's developed that's unique to him? Maybe he isn't too sure himself. Admittedly, it's equal parts satisfying and heartwarming to watch. Being able to see someone develop based on their experiences isn't something anybody gets to see everyday, and distantly, you think this is probably what it means to have a child. Albeit a fully cognizant and aware child, who is capable of processing abstract data at lightning speeds. So... not really a child, then? Where's the line here?  
  
"I would have assumed that occasionally working with someone who is an active part of something that brings harm to the city would be troublesome to you. He may not be the sole direct cause, but Red Ice often brings nothing but trouble - addiction is harmful, and never only to those who abuse the substance."  
  
"That's true, but taking in one guy who isn't even that far up the chain of a small time ring won't save anybody. If you let the idea that you won't ever be able to save everybody get into your head, you'll end up losing sleep over it." You sample an onion ring next. That's not too bad either. Nice crunch. "I won't say my work isn't worth it, but if I let every case that ever got away from me get to me, I wouldn't be here. And neither would Hank. All we _can_ do is our best, and that's what we do."  
  
"Would you consider Nathan to be your friend? I've noticed you refer to him as 'Nate', and your concern for his privacy is… strange under these particular circumstances." Connor catches you mid-bite of your burger, and you go still at the notion. It's genuinely something you've never considered before - he's a good source of information, and not an inherently bad man, but... "I pulled up some old archived records, the earliest possible report with both of your names attached. It would seem the two of you go several years back. Is that not ample time for friendship to blossom?"  
  
There it is again. The feeling that Connor is probing into matters that go beyond the cold, almost clinical way he views his investigative work. He doesn't seem to be asking for the benefit of the case. If you're not wrong, he's asking for _himself_.  
  
"I think it's a bit more complex than that." You put your burger back down into its cardboard tray. "I mean I don't exactly invite him out for drinks, or call to check up on him, you know? Given our respective positions, that sort of thing is difficult. I'd probably get a stern lecture from the Captain at best, but his involvement with me is a little more dangerous."  
  
"So you care about him..." If you had any doubt before that Connor's entire line of questioning was for his own benefit, you're all but convinced now. His eyes search your own, observing, studying. Maybe even a little pleading. They're the eyes of someone who wants to understand and find their own way. It's a gaze so firm and full of conviction that you find yourself unable to look away, and so the two of you stand there in silence for a few extra moments, gazes locked.  
  
"I do." How easy the answer comes surprises even yourself.  
  
"Even though he stands on the opposite side of the law?"  
  
Lifting your drink, you take a deliberately slow sip as you consider his question. Soda isn't your usual go-to beverage of choice, and after going so long without it, you can _feel_ the sugar on your teeth - an almost fuzzy kind of burn. "Like I've been saying, it's more complex than that. People don't necessarily have to agree on absolutely everything to be friends. Those domestic abuse charges against him… it's more complicated than what's down on paper, or in those reports. He's stuck in a very particular situation, and while I can't directly help him, I can keep him out of jail until he can sort it out on his own, and in return, he feeds me info. What we have is more of mutual benefit than anything you'd call friendship, but I'd also be lying if I said I wouldn't be sad if anything happened to him." You pause for a short moment, trying to gather your thoughts. "I think what I'm saying is that you can't really look at human relations... or maybe even anything in black and white terms. You need to consider things like circumstance and nuance. I mean, if this kind of thing was so easy to define, as a society, we'd probably be better off." After a second, you append your statement with a wry smile. "Actually, everything would probably be on fire, but I like to think I have faith in people."  
  
A contemplative silence is all that you're met with. In the short period of time you've been able to work with Connor, you've come to notice how jarring his behaviour is when on and off work. Recalling the last murder you were at with him, you remember his movements and deductions were swift and confident, always well thought out and so _certain_ , always carried out with the rigidity of protocols. But the Connor that's standing opposite you now is almost.. Timid. No, that doesn't seem like the right word. Inexperienced? Unsure? Some bizarre combination of all three of those things. It's a result of reaching the very ends of your programming, a warm and comforting familiarity, and being met with an endless void beyond it - blank, empty and overwhelming in its sheer volume. One you didn't even really know existed before it was thrust upon you. What's in it? What's supposed to go in it? How far does it extend? Those are questions only Connor can answer, but taking that first step forward into the vast unknown is so, so intimidating. All the more when you've only recently realised just how small of existence you really are.  
  
"Is there any particular reason you're asking?" It's your turn to question him now, and his eyes dart up to look at you from underneath his lashes. "A couple weeks back, you said you felt lost in regards to who you are. We haven't really had the chance to talk like this since then, so I'm just wondering how you're doing, I guess."  
  
"I'm…" He thinks it over for a moment before a slow smile pulls at his lips. "Doing my best." His smile is contagious it seems, because before long, you're doing the same. "At present, I'm merely trying to absorb as much of the world around me as possible. Seeing new things. Trying new things. Meeting different people." He pauses at that last part, giving you a rather pointed look. "I admit I haven't gotten very far, considering our current case and workload, but I am looking forward to having more time to reflect on things you've told me. You've actually been very helpful."  
  
"Huh?" Not the most elegant response, but you really weren't expecting that. "Connor, we've spoken maybe a handful of times, I don't know that I've really said anything that insightful."  
  
"Haven't you? Since we're partners, I spend nearly all of my time with Hank, and while he is very forthright, he isn't very… shall we say, eloquent." There's a certain shift of something in his eyes, a certain way they soften that accentuates his smile. "I deeply appreciate his presence - Hank is irreplaceable to me - but he is difficult to speak to when it comes to delicate matters. Having worked with him in the past, I'm sure you understand what I mean."  
  
You do, maybe more than Connor realises. Hank is a very brusque individual, never afraid to speak his mind, and even less afraid to call somebody out on their bullshit. You imagine he's the kind of guy who'd struggle to have The Talk to their child without getting all awkward about it, so yes. Connor has a point.  
  
"Okay, true. Don't you have anybody else you could talk to though? You know, like other friends, or something." Both of his eyebrows rise at that, mouth falling agape in surprise. It's not really a good sign considering what you just asked him, and so you flash him a rather incredulous look. "Seriously? You don't have anybody else you could talk to about this?"  
  
The expression that seeps into Connor's face can only be described as sheepish, and the way he chuckles uncertainly is… actually rather charming. "I haven't exactly had the time to go make friends. Everybody in the precinct is either still getting used to androids being more involved in the workplace, or they're like Detective Reed. Hank is likely my only friend at present."  
  
"Connor…" You feel a pang of something like pity in your chest, the same way you'd feel sad walking by a dog at the adoption center. "Well, like it or not, you have me now too. Hank has my number, so consider my line open to you if you ever need anything, okay?"  
  
"Oh? I was under the assumption we were already friends." Briefly, he gestures down to your meal. "Is going to lunch not something friends do together?"  
  
And just like that, any pity you might have felt dissolves. It's funny how easily Connor is able to shift the mood, but you chalk it up to the fact that negotiations were his primary function once upon a time. "I'll give you credit for that one. That was actually pretty smooth."  
  
His easy smile is nothing if not amicable.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
When the two of you make it back to the precinct, you find Hank sitting in your chair, arms folded. "Where the hell did you two go off to?"  
  
"Lunch." Connor says simply.  
  
Hank, true to his ways, doesn't buy it. "You don't eat."  
  
"I do though." You pipe in with a hand raised. "That Chicken Feed place you always go to isn't bad."  
  
Whatever foul mood Hank might have been in prior to your arrival lifts somewhat when you say that. Guess it's true when they say the easiest way to a man's heart is through his stomach.  
  
"Fine, okay. Geez. Just wanted to let you know that the results are in. The cartridges had one match. Identical markings were found on cartridges fired in a minor turf scuffle about a year ago. No casualties, but guess who was involved?" Hank doesn't bother waiting for an answer from either you or Connor. "It's that little ring you keep talking about."  
  
"Orcein's?"  
  
"That's the one."  
  
Out the corner of your eye, you can see Connor is looking at you, and you know he's thinking how large a coincidence all of this is too. Whether it's a good one though, you're not too sure - a certain churning in your gut is giving you a bad feeling about all of this, but you decide it isn't worth bringing up. Not when, objectively, you know it's a lead worth following. You just don't quite understand why Nate thought not to mention this to you. Conflict within one's organisation is one thing, but you'd have to eventually hear about someone with such a vendetta against androids. Coupled with the recent string of murders, you'd have to be an idiot not to connect the dots.  
  
Then again, Nate is many things - a substance abuser and quick to temper, to name a few - but he isn't stupid.  
  
The unease you feel only increases tenfold when you feel your phone vibrate in your jacket pocket, and when you move to retrieve it, your jaw clenches at the string of numbers on the screen. Despite not having a name attached, it's a number you'd recognise any day of the week.  
  
It's the phone you gave to Nathan as a means of contacting you. One he only ever uses for this purpose.  
  
You give Hank a quick glance, silently asking for permission to see to the call, and though he frowns - obviously not knowing who the call is from - he waves his hand dismissively, giving you the go ahead.  
  
So you accept the call, and hold the phone up to your ear. "Hello?" Even though you know who the person on the other end is, you can't help the generic greeting.  
  
"It's me." And even though _he_ knows _you_ know, he can't help his response either. For as far as humanity has come, there are some things that will just never change. "I've got some news for you. Can we meet?"  
  
Connor and Hank exchange glances when your expression becomes serious, their eyes darting between each other and you.  
  
"Tell me where, and I'll be there."


End file.
